


a light that never goes out

by vindicatedtruth (behindtintedglass)



Series: the way I say "I love you" [4]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 12:57:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10663092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/vindicatedtruth
Summary: Harold discovers a perplexing puzzle about John that he's determined to figure out.The answer isn't quite what he expected.





	a light that never goes out

**Author's Note:**

> from number two of [one hundred ways to say "I love you"](http://p0ck3tf0x.tumblr.com/post/98502010026/one-hundred-ways-to-say-i-love-you)

“It reminded me of you.”

Harold’s whole body turns to face John then; he could feel himself twitching with facial acrobatics of befuddlement and disbelief.  “A bunch of indecipherable squiggly lines reminded you of me?” Harold says dubiously, trying and failing not to sound vaguely insulted by the very notion.

John’s own face is a mixture of amusement and smugness, and it’s equal parts endearing and annoying.  “Who says it’s indecipherable?” John drawls all-too-innocently as he moves to stand beside him, hands loosely tucked in his pockets with a pose Harold knows all too well as feigned casualness.

Harold narrows his eyes.  “It’s supposed to have _meaning_?”

John smirks.  “You’re the genius, Finch.  You tell me.”

Harold glares, but he knows it’s futile; John isn’t intimidated by him anymore, and merely gives him a mysterious smile.

Harold huffs and turns his attention back to the wall.  They’re at John’s loft, unwinding after a successful case with their latest Number; they happened to be in the area anyway, and John invited him upstairs for some tea.  He had tried not to show his surprise when he saw that not only has John stocked his kitchen with fresh (and rare) tea leaves for Sencha green, but has also purchased tea makers, infusers, and complete tea sets, with _linen_.  John had brewed a fresh pot for him, and poured it into the most ridiculously delicate porcelain teacup Harold has ever seen, and handed it into him as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Harold would’ve been tempted to tease, except John had offered it to him with such a doleful look, not unlike Bear when he’s hopefully looking up at Harold for praise — or treats.  “I promise it’s not poison,” John had said encouragingly, tinged with just the slightest hint of nervousness.  Relenting, Harold had graciously accepted the offered teacup, and surprisingly discovered that it was, in fact, the best Sencha green he had ever tasted.

John had brightened then, looking so pleased and proud, and Harold had been thankful that the tea was quite warm so he could blame the flush in his cheeks to the steam rising from the cup.  Curiosity piqued, he was about to ask the reason for the tea, when something _else_ suddenly caught his eye and demanded his full attention.  Something utterly _mind-boggling_.

“They look like something a toddler would’ve drawn on the wall with a crayon,” Harold deadpans.

John is unperturbed.  “Do they?” 

Harold scowls.  John’s smile widens.

It wasn’t, in fact, drawn with a crayon.  When Harold had prepared this loft for John, he had deliberately left it sparse, wordlessly allowing John the freedom to decorate and make use of it as he wants to; it is, after, all, _his_.  For the most part, John had left it as it was when Harold had first given it to him, seemingly finding comfort instead in the simple, efficient, minimalistic style of the military.  

Except John seems to have a… unique (bordering on _questionable_ ) sense of aesthetics when it comes to interior decorating.  Particularly with what he has chosen to decorate the largest wall with.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, frustrated.  “They’re _squiggles._ ”

John grins.  “ _Meaningful_ squiggles, Finch.”

They were deliberately placed too, because they weren’t drawn into the wall.  It was made with nails and string, not unlike the board Finch had once used to keep track of the Irrelevants he failed to save (the board that had mysteriously disappeared, and though they never once spoke about it, he had a feeling John had disposed it without his knowledge when he caught Harold looking painfully at the board too often).

There were no pictures here though, just seemingly randomly placed nails with string threaded through them, forming several rows of horizontal lines that go up and down, like a roller coaster, except with no sense of direction or design or aesthetic whatsoever.  

Harold stares at him, aghast.  “They really mean something to you?”

John looks at him then, and his tone turns soft and serious.  “They mean the world to me.”

Harold’s breath catches in his throat as he watches John’s gaze travel over the wall’s design of his making; the only personal touch in the seemingly impersonal living space.  “Despite what you believe, Finch,” John murmurs, “you don’t know everything about me.”

Harold doesn’t know why, but hearing that… _hurts_.

He turns away from John then, knowing that his face is betraying an emotion he doesn’t want the other man to see.  He lifts the teacup and sips a little too quickly, the tea scalding the back of his throat.  He looks up at the lines of nails and thread, and his face hardens, resolute.

He may not know what it means.  But he’s determined to find out.

—

He’s surrounded by a fortress of books, with multiple tabs open in the monitor in front of him, when John walks into the library the next morning.  He senses the way John halts and hesitates before curiosity gets the better of him.  “Research for our new Number, Finch?”

Harold stiffens.  “No,” he says brusquely as he resumes his typing, pausing every now and then to refer to one of the open books on his desk and to write on the pad where he keeps his notes.  

He ignores the prickling on the back of his neck as he senses John staring at him.  He hears John step closer, and tries not to react when he feels John’s gaze sweeping over his desk, knowing what he’s seeing: stacks of books about ancient ciphers and codes in varying eras and parts of the world, the computer screen displaying the more modern ones.  Out of the corner of his eye, Harold sees the way John raises his eyebrows as one of the open tabs show that Harold has hacked into the (supposedly) secret codes of the CIA.  

“Finch,” John says slowly, “isn’t this getting a little… obsessive?”

Harold holds out for several more seconds before he can’t take it anymore.  He lets the pen he’s holding fall to the table with a loud clatter.  “Can’t you at least give me a clue as to what those lines _mean_?” he asks helplessly.

He swivels in his chair to look up at John, and stops short.  Despite the obvious amusement in his features, John also looks strangely… fond.  Harold swallows, unsure why he suddenly feels embarrassed.  And so… _exposed._

John lets his fingers run lightly over one of the book’s open pages, his gaze faraway and unseeing.  “I don’t know what to tell you, Finch,” he says softly, “except that it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

Harold crosses his arms over his chest.  “That doesn’t really help at all.”  He refuses to pout like a child.  He comes very close to it.

John chuckles.  “Do we have a new Number?” he asks, deftly changing the subject.  

“No,” Harold says morosely.  He heaves a deep sigh and makes a shooing gesture.  “You can have the day off, Mr. Reese.”

John’s mouth quirks.  “I’ll leave you to your research then, boss.”

Harold glares at him; the man even has the gall to _wink_ at him. 

Sniffing, he turns back to his computer and his books.  He hears John’s footsteps fading into the background, before he hears a pause as John bends down with a low whisper to Bear.

“Make sure he doesn’t wear himself out, okay?”

Surprised, Harold turns around to look at John, but he’s already gone.

The library feels strangely… empty.

—

Harold sits straight up, startled out of his stupor at Bear’s loud bark.  He blinks the sleep out of his eyes and fumbles for his glasses, his movements lethargic as his limbs seem to take a bit longer to adjust to wakefulness.  He squints at the dust motes visible from the sunlight streaming in from the windows, and he realises that it’s already late in the afternoon.  He must have fallen asleep at his desk again.  

Bear woofs again, and Harold pats his head apologetically.  “I guess it’s time for your walk,” he says gently.  He moves to stand—and _gasps_.

Pain shoots up from his spine with an electric jolt, digging into his shoulders and his injured leg like shards of glass.  Belatedly, Harold realises that his prolonged nap not only made his overworked, overtired muscles stiff and aching—it also made him forget to take his scheduled painkillers.  

He lowers himself slowly, hissing through gritted teeth, and through the haze of pain he can hear Bear whimpering.  He lets his eyes flutter open as he senses Bear’s movements, and he sees the dog nosing at an amber bottle that Harold very clearly remembers wasn’t there before.

Bear pushes it toward him.  Shakily, Harold reaches out to take it, and even the blinding pain isn’t enough to make him fail to recognise the prescription bottle.  

Bear noses another object toward him, and Harold smiles at the dog gratefully as he takes the water bottle.  He realises that it’s already pre-opened with the seal already broken, and he has a moment to be oddly touched before another stab of pain whites out all his thoughts.  He quickly shakes out the pills and downs them with gulps of water, before he replaces the caps on both containers… and waits.

He doesn’t know how much time passes; it may have just been minutes, even though it feels like hours.  Bear has settled himself by Harold’s feet with his chin on Harold’s lap, staunchly watching him the entire time.  As soon as Harold finally feels like he can breathe without the phantom sensation of his spine grinding itself to pieces with every expansion and contraction of his lungs, he tenderly runs his fingers through the dog’s soft fur.

“Thank you, Bear,” he says as Bear thumps his tail minutely, almost hesitantly against the floor, as if still unsure of the state of his master’s well-being.  “Although… am I correct in assuming that Mr. Reese is the one who dropped these earlier while I was sleeping?”  He thumbs at the prescription bottle as it rattles in his hand.

Bear woofs, and Harold smiles, feeling a warmth blossom in his chest.  “Then I suppose I have to thank him as well.”

He turns over the bottle thoughtfully.  “Though I wonder how he knew the right brand and dosage,” he muses, “not to mention the time and frequency needed for me to—”  

He stills.

‘ _Can’t you at least give me a clue as to what those lines mean?’_

He stares at the bottle.  “Of course,” he murmurs to himself.  “How very clever, Mr. Reese.”

Finally convinced that his master is out of immediate danger, Bear shuffles back to make room as Harold swivels his chair forward and powers up the monitor of his computer.  Operating on a strong hunch, he opens his personal files and accesses his medical records.

And there, in front of him, is the answer.

_‘They mean the world to me.’_

_‘It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.’_

“Oh,” Harold breathes.  “Oh _John._ ”

—

Evening finds him standing in the middle of John’s loft, once more staring at the lines on the wall.

“You covered them with fluorescent paint,” Harold observes.

Several feet behind him, a good distance away, John steps out of the shadows.  “Yes,” he quietly affirms.  “I did.”  

John’s military efficiency shows in his habits; the only lights he turns on at night are the ones in the bathroom and in the kitchen counter.  In fact, the only illumination of the room is coming from New York City itself, as the lights filter in through the windows which John—despite being an intensely private person himself—refuses to cover with curtains.

Harold is beginning to suspect, however, that there’s another reason why John prefers his loft to be blanketed in shadow at night, aside from the practical reason of saving electricity.

Harold tilts his head toward the design on the wall.  “They look like constellations,” he softly remarks.  The fluorescent paint made the entire thing glow in the dark; the nails stand out like stars in the night sky, the thread connecting them reminiscent of the shapes that can be found in astrology books.  “It’s beautiful.”

A small smile plays on John’s lips as he steps closer.  “It is,” he agrees.  “I needed the reminder.”

“Oh?” Harold looks at him.  “Of what?”

John moves to stand beside Harold, the fabrics of their sleeves nearly brushing.  “Of a light that never goes out, no matter how dark the world gets.”

Harold’s heart flutters at that.  “I see,” he says, carefully neutral.  “That’s… a very optimistic view to have, Mr. Reese.”

John looks up at the wall.  “They give me hope,” he murmurs, indicating the glowing lines.

Harold takes a deep breath.  John senses his wordless unease, and blinks when Harold hands him a file.  He takes it, opens the folder—and Harold sees the exact moment it registers in John’s eyes that Harold finally _knows_.

“I wonder, Mr. Reese,” Harold begins softly, “why would you design your wall with the test results of my electroencephalogram?” 

Harold steps closer as John peruses the medical records Harold knows John has already seen in detail before.  Harold tries very hard not to think about how John may have acquired those records in the first place, and very possibly kept a copy for himself as reference; the design on John’s wall is a near-perfect replica of Harold’s EEG reading, the star-like lines a larger, glowing version of the measurement and recording of Harold’s brain activity. 

“Specifically,” Harold continues, gentle in his probing, “it’s the reading the doctors gave me when they tested me after the bombing.”

John’s head snaps up at that, but Harold’s gaze is calm.  The memory doesn’t give him pain anymore, only a lingering sense of loss that he’s continuously learning to live with; Nathan’s absence will always be Harold’s phantom limb, the burden of guilt a constant, sobering guide for his conscience.

Slowly, John closes the folder and hands it back to Harold.  He takes it, and waits.

“It reminds me to be careful,” John finally says as he looks back at the wall.  “To protect at all cost what the world can’t afford to lose.”

Harold holds his breath.  “And what is that, Mr. Reese?”

John is quiet for a moment longer.  He closes his eyes, and even as Harold watches, the most peaceful expression Harold has ever seen settles over John’s features.

“A beautiful mind that can save the world.”

Harold turns away.  It’s almost too painful to look at John then.

‘ _A light that never goes out, no matter how dark the world gets.’_

He blinks away the sudden mistiness that comes over his eyes.  He removes his foggy glasses and takes out his pocket square to wipe them clean.  When he puts them back on, John is looking at him, waiting.

They are teetering on the edge of a precipice, and John, as always, is following Harold’s lead on whether or not they both should leap.

“I suppose,” Harold manages to say amidst the rapid beating of his heart, “we should schedule for an electrocardiogram next.”

He turns to John, who at first has a look of confusion on his face, before it swiftly ratchets into tempered panic.  “Finch, are you—”

“No, no, Mr. Reese, I’m perfectly fine,” Harold puts up both his hands to placate John.  “I meant, we should schedule an ECG for _you_.”  

John blinks, looking completely bewildered.  “Me?  But why?”

Harold smiles, and glances up at the wall.  “Because your design is incomplete, John.  It’s missing its other half.”

He hears a sharp intake of breath, and Harold turns to him.  “We need the other half of the equation,” he softly explains.  “After all, what is a beautiful mind that can save the world… without a beautiful heart that can change it?”

The city lights are reflected in John’s eyes as they shine with a riveting combination of fear and hope.  Harold steps closer into his personal space—much closer than they have ever been before—and sees the way John’s eyes dilate as Harold looks up at him.

“I suppose it’s for my benefit too,” Harold admits, dipping his gaze shyly as he places a hand on John’s chest to steady himself.  “After all, I, too, need a reminder of what I can’t afford to lose.”

They’re standing so close together that Harold can feel the vibrations of John’s rumbling voice reverberating between them.  “And what is that?” 

Harold smiles, tucks his head beneath John’s chin, and presses his ear to John’s chest, hearing the rhythm of the future he’s fighting for.

“Your heart.”


End file.
